


Sealed With A Kiss

by CR Noble (erudite12)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Chuck's a+ parenting, Demon Summoning, Demon deal, Kid!Gabriel, Kid!Raphael, M/M, human!michael, kid!Lucifer, mentions of maternal death, mentions of paternal abandonment, soulmate au probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudite12/pseuds/CR%20Noble
Summary: Michael is at his wit's end. He's got nowhere else to go, and no one to turn to. So, he decides to summon a demon to help with his problems.It gets... complicated.





	Sealed With A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, back again with this crazy rare pair hahahahaha
> 
> Anywho, this will definitely have multiple chapters, but I probably won't be posting regularly whatsoever. This one is more like... when it strikes me, I'll make a thing happen lol. Plus, I am going through a lot of personal mental health challenges right now and I honestly am not looking for any more stress.
> 
> So, here's the first chapter, with a huge thanks to [InkStainedWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkStainedWings/pseuds/InkStainedWings) for beta reading it for me :D
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy <3 eventually this is going to be fluffy AF because apparently I want my boys to be happy. 
> 
> The rating right this moment is Teen and Up, but it is entirely possible (probable, really, if you know me) that it will change to explicit at some point in the future.

It was ridiculous, really, and probably not even real. The book definitely had that old, leatherbound, parchment-smelling, creepy occult vibe, but Michael felt like he didn’t have any other options at this point.

He had taken the advice of the old woman at the occult shop—Missouri, she’d introduced herself—and climbed to the top of a rickety stepladder to draw something called a “Devil’s Trap” with red spray paint on the ceiling in the living room, making sure it was complete before he moved on to setting up the rest of the ritual. Of course, Michael didn’t do it in his own house. Trying to explain what he was doing to his seven-year-old brother Gabriel would have been far too complicated. The kid had a rather overactive imagination.

Instead, Michael had snuck out to the old abandoned house at the end of the block. Everyone seemed convinced the place was haunted, so he figured he wouldn’t be disturbed. Surprisingly, the house seemed pretty decent on the inside, even if much of it was covered in dust and cobwebs. He supposed the disrepair was to be expected given that the house hadn’t been lived in since before he was born. Michael didn’t believe in ghosts--or any of that occult mumbo-jumbo--anyway, despite what he was there to do. He was just out of time and options. It was a last-ditch effort, a “Hail Mary,” as it were. Though, perhaps, it was more of a “Hail Satan.”

Michael pushed his dark hair out of his eyes--he really needed a haircut--and squinted at the faded symbol on the page as he did his best to recreate it on the old planks of the wooden floor in white chalk. When he was certain it was as close to perfect as he would ever get it, he put the tome aside and set up six pillar candles in the circles that represented their proper positions for the ritual. He lit them and pulled a small metallic bowl full of herbs he couldn’t remember the names of toward him.

Dragging the small knife he’d brought from his kitchen across his palm hurt more than he expected. The knife was old and dull, and it tore the skin more than it sliced. Michael watched as blood welled from the cut, slowly filling his hand until he took a deep breath and closed his fist. His fingers dug into the fresh wound and the blood spilled over the dried green and brown leaves in the bowl. He grimaced and wrapped his hand with pieces of an old white t-shirt he’d shredded.

“Here goes nothing,” Michael muttered to himself, lighting a match. In a louder, clearer voice, he recited the foreign words he had memorized from the book. “Et ad congregandom, eos coram me.” He dropped the match into the bowl, backing away and shielding his eyes with a gasp as the fire flared hot and bright.

Then, as quickly as it flashed, the fire died down and the room was lit only by the flickering light of the candles. It was silent except for Michael’s heavy breathing. Nothing seemed to have changed. He didn’t sense the presence of anyone--or any _ thing _ \--else. As expected, the ritual was a bust.

“You know, your Latin is terrible,” said a deep, raspy voice with a foreign lilt. “You should really work on your pronunciation if you plan on successfully summoning any other demons.”

Michael jumped to his feet, heart pounding painfully against his ribs as he searched the dark room for the source of the voice. 

Had it actually worked? There was no way... Someone was messing with him.

The voice, while certainly foreign, didn’t sound at all otherworldly or terrifying. It didn’t sound anything like what Michael would have expected from a beast dragged to Earth from the depths of Hell.

“That Devil’s Trap is fine work, though,” the voice said from somewhere behind Michael. “If you’d like it to serve its intended purpose, might I suggest that next time you perform the summoning ritual within its borders?”

Turning to face the source of the voice, Michael was met by a pair of brightly glowing red eyes. He could see the shadow of a face, but nothing more. He cursed himself, wishing he’d brought a flashlight. “Are you…”

“A demon? I should certainly hope so.” The glowing eyes moved toward Michael, and he took an involuntary step back. What the flickering candlelight revealed was not, however, some hideous creature. It was a man maybe ten years Michael’s senior.

He was a few inches shorter than Michael with a strong jaw and slightly pointed chin. His eyes were still a bit sunken and his straight nose a bit too small for the rest of his face. Thin lips were set into a smirk beneath that nose in such a way that Michael thought the expression might be permanent. He had thick, dark hair despite what appeared to be a receding hairline--or perhaps it was just the shadows from the candles--and he wore a suit. It was entirely black and very expensive, judging by how well it fit. The demon blinked and the red glow was gone, replaced by rather human-looking eyes. Without more light or less distance, it was impossible to tell their color. Altogether, the man was quite attractive in the gleam of candlelight.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s impolite to stare?” the demon asked.

Michael felt the unexpected burn of a blush in his cheeks and looked away. Why in the world should he care if he wasn’t being polite to a demon? He swallowed thickly. “Sorry. You’re just not what I expected.”

The man-- _ demon _ \--chuckled darkly and it resonated almost pleasantly in Michael’s bones. “You were anticipating what? Horns and a pitchfork? A tail, perhaps?”

“Well… yeah, I guess.” Michael rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. But it wasn’t fear so much as nerves driving his anxiety. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was gonna work. I mean, I don’t--or, well, didn’t--believe in any of this occult nonsense. The whole thing was kind of an act of desperation.”

The demon rolled his eyes. “Pitchforks are so 1812. I prefer well-tailored Italian silk, thank you very much.” He slid his hands into his pockets and stared at Michael like he was expecting some kind of acknowledgment. “Do you even know who I am?”

Michael shook his head a shrugged. “I was just trying to summon any random demon, to be honest. And like I said, I didn’t expect it to actually work.”

He leveled a disbelieving stare at Michael, silent for a long moment, then he simply nodded. “I assume you’ve interrupted my evening of torturing lost souls for a reason.”

“I was told that demons make deals sometimes.”

The man nodded and casually leaned against a nearby wall. “I’ve been known to on occasion. What is it that you want? Money? Fame? Women?”

“No, nothing like that.” Michael sat on one of the lower steps of the ladder and rubbed his eyes tiredly, then looked up at the demon. “It’s not even for me, really.” He watched as the demon crossed his arms and remained silent. “I have three younger brothers,” Michael continued. “Our mother died when Gabe was a year old. Six months ago, my dad just up and took off and I’ve been trying to take care of my brothers ever since. I can’t keep us afloat. We go days sometimes without eating. I just want to make sure they’re fed and cared for. No matter what happens to me.”

The demon looked at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly incredulous. “You summoned the King of the Crossroads for a bloody loaf of bread?”

“It’s a little more than that,” Michael replied defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re willing to sell your soul for that?”

“I had no idea demons could be so judgmental,” Michael quipped. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, either, but he kept that to himself. Surprisingly, the demon looked sufficiently cowed, even a touch guilty, maybe. “Look, I don’t have much in the way of earthly possessions. And if selling my soul means my brothers get a better chance at the life they deserve, then yes. The damn thing isn’t doing me any good anyway.”

The demon looked Michael over with appraising eyes. “You’re hardly more than a child yourself,” he muttered. Michael retained the good sense not to seem too offended by that. He was young, sure, but he wasn’t a kid. “What’s your name?”

“Michael. And, for the record, I’m twenty-three. I was in college when my dad abandoned my family.”

“There must be something else you can do,” the demon said with a sigh.

It almost sounded like he was trying to talk Michael out of selling his soul, and Michael told him as much.

The demon shook his head, face serious. “It just seems like an extreme measure,” he said, hesitating for just a moment before leaning toward Michael. “You understand that if you do this, you only get ten years. Once your ten years are up, you’ll die. Horrifically. And your soul will be dragged to Hell for an eternity of torture.”

Michael wasn’t really sure why the demon was bothering to tell him any of this. From the look of him, the demon wasn’t really sure why, either. This whole exchange was weird. Even more weird than Michael might have imagined a conversation with a demon to be.

None of that mattered, not as long as Luke, Raphael, and Gabriel were taken care of. Michael’s jaw clenched and he stared into the demon’s eyes. “Where do I sign, demon?”

“Call me Crowley,” the demon said with a raised eyebrow. He looked at Michael for a long moment, and something about his gaze and his tone of voice were different. It was almost as though Michael’s self-sacrificial determination had earned his respect. “You don’t sign anywhere. Demon deals are sealed with a kiss.”

“Oh,” Michael replied eloquently. His eyes drifted over the unique features of Crowley’s face again. They were clearer now that they were closer together. Brown, Michael realized. Crowley’s eyes were brown. Michael was, somehow, inexorably drawn to him. Even though he was a demon--the King of the Crossroads, as he’d proclaimed himself--there was something about Crowley, something Michael couldn’t quite put his finger on that was incredibly enticing. Given the opportunity, he might have kissed Crowley even if there wasn’t a deal to be had. 

Michael looked down at his feet, conflicted. There was no way it was normal to be attracted to a demon like this.

“You don’t have to go through with this,” Crowley said softly, hooking a finger under Michael’s chin and lifting his face so their eyes met. It was like he felt the same strange, electric connection between them. And given the way he was looking at Michael, he was just as perplexed by it. “I’m sure we can find some other way.”

Michael shook his head and Crowley’s hand dropped away. “I’ve tried, Crowley. Trust me, I wouldn’t have done all this if I had another way.” He smiled wryly and stood, taking a step toward the demon. His palms were sweating and his heart was pounding. It was an oddly pleasant sensation, a combination of nerves and anticipation that Michael hadn’t felt since he worked up the courage to kiss Rachel at homecoming his sophomore year of high school. “Besides, I don’t think kissing you could be all that bad.”

Crowley laughed, a smile--small, barely there, but real--softening his features until it was completely unbelievable that he was an evil creature from Hell. “I’ve been told I’m quite skilled. I have been doing it for a very,  _ very _ long time.”

“How long is that?”

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

Michael swallowed roughly. He shouldn’t be surprised by the idea of a demon being centuries old, but he was anyway. Crowley didn’t look a day over thirty-five. “So, if we make this deal, you’ll make sure they’re always taken care of?”

Crowley stared up at him, intent and serious. “You have my word.”

It might have been an insane thing to think--really, the entire evening had been crazy--but, Crowley struck Michael as a man of integrity. Michael believed him when he said he would honor a deal. Not to mention it would probably be bad for business if word got out that demons didn’t follow through on their deals. Michael nodded, the anticipation spiking. “Okay. Let’s do it, then.”

Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head and pressed his lips softly to Crowley’s. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Michael knew that was enough; the deal was done. A spark ran through him, though, an electric current, and he didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to. Instead, Michael stepped in even closer and cupped Crowley’s face in both hands. His eyes fluttered shut and he tilted the demon’s head.

The demon smelled like strong, sweet liquor with a strangely intoxicating brimstone undercurrent, and Michael couldn’t seem to get enough of the bizarre combination. His tongue prodded gently for entrance, delving beyond when Crowley’s lips parted. He felt a hand on his back, pressing him closer, holding their bodies together.

Crowley was hot, like there was fire running through his veins instead of blood. The body heat emanated from him and Michael let it cover him like a blanket. There was no battle for dominance in the slick slide of their tongues, just a harmonious dance. Like they’d been doing this for years, like this kiss was always meant to happen. Michael sighed, settling comfortably into it. It felt so weirdly  _ right _ and he lost track of how long they kissed like that. He was breathless when he finally pulled away, and Crowley looked as dazed as he felt.

Neither of them moved; they just stood there, staring at each other. Deep in his bones, Michael knew that Crowley was going to leave now that the deal was done. He didn’t want him to go, but their silence was only delaying the inevitable. Michael bit his lip and broke the silence. “Will it be you? When my ten years is up, I mean.”

Crowley seemed as reluctant as Michael to stop touching or move away. “It can be. Normally souls are collected by hellhounds, but if you want it to be me, I can come personally.”

“Will I see you again before then?” Michael asked without bothering to mask the desire to spend more time with the demon. What would be the point in that? Especially since it was becoming increasingly clear that the feeling was mutual.

Crowley gestured to what was left of the ritual behind Michael. “I’ll be around,” he said and then smiled. “I’ll come if you call.”

“Yeah, okay.” Michael nodded.

“Goodbye, for now, Michael.” 

Crowley disappeared and Michael was left standing alone in the dark living room of an empty, abandoned house.


End file.
